The morning following the Duchess of Devonshire's ball brought with it a brittle, unforgiving sun that did little to warm the damp air of Hyde Park. For Nicholas Hale, the Baron of Ashbourne, the early hour was a sanctuary. He rode a massive, soot-colored stallion named Obsidian, a beast as temperamental and physically imposing as the limestone cliffs of the north. Riding was the only time Nicholas allowed his mind to drift from the rigid ledgers of the Hale estate and the "tactical briefings" of the London season.
Yet, as he guided Obsidian along the soft dirt of Rotten Row, the previous night's encounter refused to be filed away. The image of the woman in the faded grey dress—the one who had dared to call him a "rake of the soul"—was burned into his mind like a brand.
"Sensibility," Nicholas muttered to the wind, his jaw tightening as he remembered Helena Beaumont's piercing gaze. "She spoke of sensibility as if it were a defect, yet she guards her sister like a fortress commander."
He squeezed his knees against the stallion's flanks, seeking the comfort of physical exertion to drown out the memory of her voice. He had spent a decade turning himself into a "stone foundation" for his siblings, ensuring they would never feel the "whims of fate" that had claimed their father in the grove. To have a woman—a penniless, blunt-spoken wallflower—tell him he was "not good enough" because he lacked "warmth" was an insult that felt strangely like a challenge.
He was so deeply entrenched in his own dark reflections that he almost didn't notice the small group walking near the Serpentine. There, amidst the fashionable throng of morning strollers, were the Beaumonts. Catherine, the "Diamond," was veiled and walking with a hesitant, airy grace. Beside her, Ruth Beaumont was busy scanning the horizon for eligible titles like a hawk searching for prey.
And then there was Helena. She was dressed in the same "sensible grey" she had worn to the ball, her back as straight as a pike. She wasn't looking at the other riders; she was looking down at a leash she held with both hands, her expression one of intense focus.
Nicholas felt a jolt of recognition that was entirely too sharp for comfort. He should have turned Obsidian and ridden in the opposite direction. Instead, he found himself pulling on the reins, slowing the stallion to a walk as he drew parallel to the women. He told himself it was a matter of courtesy.
"Good morning, Mrs. Beaumont," Nicholas said, his voice carrying the icy grace that was his hallmark. He touched the brim of his hat, his eyes flicking toward Catherine before settling, inevitably, on Helena. "Miss Beaumont. Miss Helena."
The reaction was instantaneous. Ruth Beaumont's face transformed into a mask of delight, while Catherine took a visible step behind her sister. Helena, however, did not smile. She looked up, her eyes narrowing as they took in the stallion and the hard set of Nicholas's shoulders.
"Lord Ashbourne," Helena said, her tone as dry as old parchment. "I see you are out 'inspecting the ledger' of the park this morning."
Nicholas felt the familiar prickle of irritation. "I am merely taking the air, Miss Beaumont. Though I see you have brought along your... companion."
He looked down at the end of the leash. Brittany, the deformed corgi, was currently crouched low to the ground, her sausage-like torso vibrating with a low, rhythmic growl. One flopped-over ear twitched violently as she stared up at the massive stallion.
"She is a companion, My Lord," Helena said, her grip tightening on the leather strap. "And she is quite sensitive to 'atmospheric shifts.' She seems to find your presence particularly... disruptive."
"The dog has no sense of scale," Nicholas noted. "Just like her mistress, she seems determined to challenge things far larger than herself."
Helena opened her mouth to retort, but the "poetry of the heart" was suddenly interrupted by a very physical reality. A stray cat darted across the path directly in front of them. Brittany didn't bark. She didn't hesitate. With a strength that defied her stature, she launched herself forward. The leash, already frayed, snapped with a sharp, sickening crack.
"Brittany! No!" Helena cried, but the "tiny, furry fortress" was already gone.
The dog ignored the cat entirely. Instead, she pivoted with military precision and lunged for the one thing in the park that represented everything she hated: the giant, soot-colored horse carrying the man with the "heart encased in ice."
The transition to absolute mayhem was instantaneous. Brittany became a low-slung streak of white and tan fur, hurtling toward the stallion with a guttural war cry. Obsidian, a creature of immense pride, did not take kindly to being bayed at by a creature that barely reached his pasterns. As Brittany lunged, snapping her misaligned jaw at the horse's front legs, the stallion let out a shrill whistle of alarm.
"Steady, boy! Steady!" Nicholas commanded, his voice a low rumble.
But Brittany was relentless. She circled the stallion's rear, her sharp yaps echoing like pistol shots. Obsidian, pushed beyond the limit of his training, did the one thing Nicholas had spent months teaching him not to do: he reared.
The massive horse rose up on his hind legs, his shadow stretching long and terrifying. For a heartbeat, Nicholas was silhouetted against the morning sun, a dark figure fighting to maintain control. Ruth Beaumont let out a high-pitched shriek, while Catherine stood frozen, her eyes wide with a terror that looked painfully familiar to Nicholas. It was the look of someone watching the world break apart—the same look he had seen in his siblings' eyes the day his father fell.
"Get the dog, Miss Beaumont!" Nicholas roared, his muscles straining as he forced Obsidian's head down. The stallion's hooves hit the dirt with a concussive thud that sent a spray of mud over the hem of Helena's grey gown.
Helena didn't hesitate. Ignoring the danger, she dived into the fray. She threw her entire body over the vibrating, snarling corgi, pinning the dog to the damp earth.
"I have her!" Helena gasped, her face pressed into Brittany's coarse fur.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the ragged breathing of man, woman, and beast. Nicholas looked down at the scene. Helena was kneeling in the mud, her hair beginning to unravel from its tight coil, her dress ruined.
"You handle a horse well, Lord Ashbourne," Helena said, her voice breathy but sharp. "Though I suggest you teach him that the world contains creatures smaller than himself. His temperament is as volatile as a 'random whim of nature'."
Nicholas felt his pulse racing—not from the danger, but from the sheer gall of the woman. "My horse's temperament is perfectly managed, Miss Beaumont. It is your 'furry fortress' that seems to lack basic sensibility."
He began to dismount, his movements fluid and economical, though his jaw was set with a flinty hardness.
Nicholas stood on the grass, his boots sinking into the churned turf. He looked down at Helena, who remained on her knees, her hands buried in the thick scruff of the now-silent Brittany.
"Sensibility, Miss Beaumont, usually dictates that one secures their livestock before entering a public thoroughfare," Nicholas said, brushing a smudge of grit from his sleeve.
Helena stood up, lifting the heavy corgi into her arms like a shield. A streak of mud ran down her cheek. She looked less like a stern governess and more like a woman who had just fought a war.
"And 'sensibility' would dictate that a man of your experience wouldn't ride a beast that frightens at the sound of a ten-pound dog," Helena countered. "Is your 'stone foundation' so easily rattled? Perhaps the 'Great Northern Oak' isn't as deeply rooted as the Sheet suggests."
Nicholas stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. "I handle my affairs with precision, Miss Beaumont. I do not appreciate 'variables' that bite at my shins."
"Then perhaps you should stay in your study with your ledgers, My Lord," she snapped. "The world is messy, and loud, and occasionally it tries to bite you. You cannot manage the universe into a state of silent cooperation."
Behind them, Ruth Beaumont emerged from the shelter of an elm. "Helena! You must apologize at once! My Lord, please... the dog is high-spirited."
Nicholas didn't look at Ruth. He kept his eyes on Helena. He could feel the heat radiating from her—a mixture of exertion and pure temper.
"You are covered in mud," Nicholas observed, his voice softening by a fraction.
"I am aware," Helena replied. "It is a natural consequence of 'taking shelter' when the wind picks up. I believe I told you last night that I prefer the rain to a stone house with a ghost."
Nicholas felt a jolt of something that wasn't anger. It was a spark of genuine interest. He looked at the dog, who let out a soft, dismissive huff.
"The beast is as impossible as its mistress," Nicholas murmured, though there was a phantom trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
"She is a judge of character, Lord Ashbourne," Helena said, turning to her mother and Catherine. "And currently, she finds your 'aesthetic appreciation' of the park to be severely lacking in warmth."
She turned on her heel and retreated, her sensible grey skirts trailing through the grass. Nicholas stood by his horse's head. He felt insulted and rattled, but as he watched her go, he knew Nathaniel was right. He had finally met someone who wasn't afraid of the abyss.
He reached into his pocket and felt the cracked glass of his father's watch. For the first time in eleven years, the frozen hands didn't seem like the only reality in the world.
"She is a catastrophe," Nicholas said to Obsidian.
But as he swung back into the saddle, he knew he would be looking for a grey dress at every ball for the rest of the season.